Finding Beauty
by venthuray
Summary: Would she ever find the beauty she was looking for? Written by my cousin, for her friend. [I've posted this before, but for some strange reason, it disappeared. O, my fic! O, my reviews! -cries-]


For Jocelyn. You are beautiful. Don't let them get you down. And thanks to venthuray for beta-ing this for me. :)

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Finding Beauty

Her fingers dart around the cloth nimbly, weaving in and out, the thread of string following it. Forming a myriad of all colors scattered all over the snow white cloth, like the sprinkling of stars on a summer night. She is working with silver now, threading it, screwing up her face in concentration, going faster and faster as she reaches the heart of her embroidery.

In and out.

She empties her mind, blanking it of everything but the masterpiece she is creating before her. Faster. Faster. Her fingers are a blur, going up and down, in and out, like only an experienced embroiderer can. _Faster_.

And then suddenly, she stops.

She snaps off her thread, placing the needle and thread down, surveying her work. A slow smile spreads across her face. 

This is a change from her usual embroidery of flowers; it isn't actually a picture of anything. It is abstract. All the colors of the rainbow intertwining with each other; a splash of red here, a streak of green there. And at the heart of it all is a spiral, sewn in silver.

It is beautiful.

She doesn't have to be modest. She prides herself on knowing what is beautiful and what is not. And she is amazed, amazed and delighted that she had the ability to create a thing of such exquisite beauty such as this.

Beauty.

What is beauty, really?

People tell her she is beautiful. She knows that she is not; and she is not being overly humble either. She is not beautiful, at least not physically. No human is beautiful on the outside. In the way of appearances, there are things of such loveliness that humans cannot hope to compare with.

But when it rains, and she is out there, as is her habit to do so, she feels beautiful. She dances, twirling, letting the raindrops drench her from head to toe.

Paper hearts, crimson roses, delicate silver jewelry, emerald tears, pillars of fire, fallen angels, sunsets and sunrises – these are all things she considers to be beautiful. Her embroidery can be beautiful, as exemplified by her most recent piece. But these are all material things.

Pretty, gorgeous, stunning, good-looking, attractive. These are all the human definitions of beauty. The words are simple enough, describing the way something looks. But beauty is not as shallow as that. It goes deeper. 

She sometimes sees beauty in her brother's eyes as he leans to drop a kiss on his girlfriend's lips. The pure bliss that spreads across the two faces. She has also seen beauty in her mother's face, when her father presented her with a single, long-stemmed red rose on their wedding anniversary.

Beauty could be the way she feels when she is dancing in the rain. When she is running, flying straight ahead, not caring about anything else in the world. When she is stargazing, looking and wondering about those heavenly bodies. 

But there is also evil beauty.

She has encountered it before. Once, when she was eleven. Tom was white-hot anger, all the beauty consuming him from within. It hurt even to look at him, so she shaded her eyes and pretended not to notice. But beauty like that was not made to be ignored, so it took her by force and she was forced to admire it. Obey it.

And there is also the boy of ice. 

The boy with the molten silver eyes who looks at her, unblinkingly. The one whom she sometimes plays mind games with, and he her. His gaze burns through her, draining her of all emotions except for one she cannot quite place, and then filling her up all over again, until she is flying, wondrously, hopelessly high. 

She is still pondering when her brother comes up the stairs, yelling her name. Telling her to come down for dinner. She unfolds herself with a catlike grace, letting out an inaudible sigh. She grabs her sewing kit, stuffing her embroidery in it almost roughly, and exits.

She is still no closer to finding the meaning of beauty.

~

__

She walks in beauty, like the night.

She has always loved poetry, and she cannot help letting out a small, self-mocking laugh at how this describes her now. Twilight has long-since passed, and it is nearly the point at where it is so late that is early.

She is taking her nightly walk by the lake. Something she only does by herself, and only when it is night and she is sure that nobody will see her. Her hands are clasped behind her back, and her scarlet curls, always swept back into a hasty ponytail or an equally messy bun, is a cascade of fire down her back.

She tilts her head to the heavens as she walks. As many times as she has done this before, she never tires of it. The stars shine at her, casting their ethereal light onto her face. Pulsating gently, blinking on and off. Twinkling. Embracing her.

The stars are beautiful.

She turns a corner, and stops short.

Oh dear. What is _he_ doing here?

He is sitting there, with his legs pulled up to his chest and his hair gleaming an almost unearthly shade of silver in the pale moonlight. The moon casts a shadow over his face, which is filled with emotion. Sadness? She doesn't know. Except for the fact that he looks almost…vulnerable.

He is as close to human beauty as you can get.

She can stand there forever, gaping at the sight he made. A being fallen from heaven, twisted to form a hybrid of demon and angel. Red-striped candy, angry slashes of blood made on white sweetness. 

Except that she suddenly hears a cracking noise, and jumps back in alarm.

But it is too late, he has heard. His head snaps over to look at her, and whatever feelings of sympathy she might have had towards him vanishes. She can read his face well enough to know that he is angry, extremely angry. She takes a few tentative steps towards him, hoping to appease the hostility between them.

He gets up with a kind of sinewy grace and advances towards her, ice so cold that it burns white hot, flashing in his eyes.

What are you doing here? He speaks fiercely, almost aggressively.

Can't I come here without your consent? This isn't exactly your property, you know.

Don't try to play games with me. All those looks between mealtimes and during Quidditch games, in the hallways…what do you _want_ from me, Weasley?

What do _you_ want from me?

Do you really want to know? He moves closer, his contours blending in with the darkness. Which, really, is only appropriate, seeing that he is a child of the shadows.

I –

She stutters, not knowing what to say. What _can_ she say?

A predatory smile curves its way up his face. He is beautifully dangerous, and she is the little girl who knows nothing of the real world out there. And with shock, she finds herself wanting him to educate her.

And as if reading her mind, he is right before her, wrapping an arm around her waist and with the other, guiding her face up to meet his. 

And as their lips meet, she knows that she has found her beauty.

Review. And Jo, once again, this is for you.


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